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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396524">told you not to worry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltalyn/pseuds/saltalyn'>saltalyn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>he's the sun and he's the moon [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(but like it's not that bad), Blood and Injury, Getting Together, Homoerotically Tend to my Wounds, M/M, Trolls, Watford Seventh Year, i am not a medical professional and neither is baz!!, i don't think i'll ever write anything where he doesn't, neither of us know what we're doing!!, please pretend that we do, the mage still sucks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:29:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396524</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltalyn/pseuds/saltalyn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon comes back from a mission for the Mage severely injured, Baz patches him up.</p><p>prompt #5: "Why do you think you have to do everything on your own?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Penelope Bunce &amp; Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>he's the sun and he's the moon [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>told you not to worry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here's another one :))</p><p>title from ilomilo by Billie Eilish</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tonight is a night of no sleep. I’m awake and worried about Snow because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course I am</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I feel as if that’s my constant state of being: worried about the Chosen One. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight he’s on a mission for the Mage, and I know for a fact he hasn’t strung Bunce along for this escapade. At dinner, Snow had received a bird from the Mage, after reading it and conspiring with Bunce, he stuffed a scone in his mouth (It was disgusting. Why do I love him?) and carried another with him, presumably for the walk. I subtly observed Bunce and she never followed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankful that I’d fed before dinner, I watched the Cloisters from our window. Bunce hadn’t left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That means Simon is on a mission for the idiotic Mage, and Bunce isn’t with him. Bunce is an intelligent and practical magician, a force to be reckoned with; with her, I know Simon would return alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it neared midnight, I decided to retire to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m tossing and turning when I hear Snow’s tell-tale oafish footsteps. His tread is slower and heavier than usual, he’s either exhausted or injured--perhaps both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doorknob clanks, turning, and I pretend to sleep. I inhale sharply as the sweet smell of Snow’s blood reaches my nose. (I’ve smelled it twice before, when I broke his nose and when he’d gotten a particularly deep paper cut.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles into his desk, his blood’s scent permeating throughout the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I will my fangs not to drop, but I’ll break eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shoot up into a sitting position when his trainers squeak against our floor. “What the bloody hell are you doing at this hour?” I ask, keeping my voice cold and collected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking Christ, Baz.” (I love when he swears like a Normal.) “You’re a bloody fright, you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” I say, voice harder, “are you doing.” It isn’t a question. “You’re stumbling around like a blind troll whilst I’m trying to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My vision adjusts from being closed and I finally focus on him. My eyes sweep down his body from head to toe. His hair is dark with sweat, most likely. There’s blood dripping down from his temple, cheek, nose, and lip. There’s a dark spot surrounding his hand where he holds his stomach. His trackie bottoms are ripped at the knees. What happened to him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, I didn’t know,” he deadpans. He takes another step, his knees buckle but he regains his balance, remaining steadfast on his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like you’ll collapse,” I say. I’m more worried about him right now than I’ve ever been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes to shrug but winces before completing the action. He takes three steps toward the en suite before falling to the ground. I was right, I always am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hesitate slightly, then I’m at his side in an instant. I nudge his shoulder until he rolls over onto his back. He groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What on earth did you do?” I ask incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmph,” he mumbles. I roll my eyes and attempt to pull him to his feet by his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re bleeding out, stay with me, Simon.” I heave him up by his armpits and essentially drag him into the en suite. I let go and he slumps onto the toilet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could use magic to heal him up but I don’t, not yet. I’ve many excuses and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I want to heal him the Normal way and touch him. (One, I left it in my bed, I don’t want to leave Snow unattended for even a second. Two, I’m not well-versed in healing spells. The best I could do is a simple ‘Get well soon’ or some other variation.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snatch a clean flannel from the cupboard and have Snow press it to his open wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His posture is relaxed and open, this is the least tense I’ve ever seen him. I blush as I kneel between his legs to begin sanitizing the cuts on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow just stares at me from half-lidded eyes, a small smile on his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so focused on trying not to make eye contact, my fangs drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wicked,” Snow breathes. He doesn’t even flinch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck a nine-toed troll!” I curse, words slurred by the nuisances in my mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty,” he whispers, if it weren’t for my enhanced hearing I wouldn’t have heard him. My entire face feels hot. He reaches out with the hand not holding the flannel and tries to touch my fangs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” I say sternly and bat his hand away. The corners of his mouth turn down in an over-exaggerated pout. Curse him. “You’re even more annoying when you’re out of it, Snow.” He hums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vampire,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully you don’t remember this when you wake up.” I can’t very well take him to the infirmary now, he’s woozy, he might tell the nurse what I am. His head starts dropping, “Simon,” his head pops up, “I have to get my wand, I'm sorry, I’ll be back in a second.”</span>
</p><p>I need to compose myself, the boy that's been trying to out me as a vampire for years finally has his suspicions confirmed. <span>Crowley, I should have just pretended to stay asleep. But then what if he’d bled out, or fallen and gotten a concussion? When he’s less delusional I’ll have to force him into not telling anyone, an Englishman’s bond, perhaps?</span></p><p>
  <span>“Don’t leave,” he grabs my wrist and I flinch. Fuck me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(...Well.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand is so warm, it’s burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t heal you without my wand, Snow. Don’t be an idiot.” He pouts and I wrench my hand out of his grasp before I do something stupid. I take a few deep breaths in our main room, casting, “</span>
  <b>Get well soon. Right as rain,</b>
  <span>” when I return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My stomach hurts,” Simon groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shit.” Nicks and Slick, he’ll have to remove his shirt. “Your shirt- wound- shirt off,” I stammer. He attempts to lift his arms and moans in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t work,” he slurs. I snort. I help him peel off his shirt, trying to cause as little pain as possible. Snow and I do not dress in front of each other. I change in the en suite while he changes in our room, or vice versa. I’ve never seen him without a top… he’s glorious. He’s all golden skin, with freckles and moles mapping across his body like constellations. His shoulders are broad and strong, his arms are toned, and his torso looks solid and soft simultaneously. My imagination is going to have a field day with this later. I don’t have to picture Simon shirtless in my fantasies, I know what he looks like now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks like the sun, the centre of my universe. I’m Icarus and I’ve flown too close, but I can’t look away. He’s pulling me in, something within me is yelling at me to run away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes scour his torso and I finally see his injury. It’s a somewhat deep gash on the right side of his abdomen. It’s glistening dark red and the aroma of his blood grows heady. My head is spinning, my id is roaring at me to drain him dry. I would never, could never. I’d never want to hurt him, not once--though I already have. I’ve never tasted a human’s blood before, based on smell alone I know he would taste better than any rodent or game. But I can’t, I won’t, the moment I taste even a drop of human blood, I’m closer to being like the monsters that murdered my mother. I don’t want to be like them, I could never forgive myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow’s eyes widen suddenly. “Vampire,” he mutters, seemingly enlightened, “blood… my blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t hurt you, Simon,” I say gently, kneeling at his feet. He doesn’t try to move away. Why not? He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I am, what I could do. Is he too out of it? Too trusting? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and presses the flannel back to his side. “I know, Baz,” he says quietly, voice sounding more lucid than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grip the hand holding the flannel and pull it away gently. The laceration is deeper than I initially thought. “What the fuck were you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates. “Mage… m’nsters… fight.” I roll my eyes, that hardly tells me anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flannel has stemmed the bleeding but if he moves, it’ll start up again. Fuck me, I’ll have to give him stitches. I’ve no bloody clue how to do this, I’ve never been interested in the medical field. I’ve only seen makeshift stitches applied in movies, I’ve no way of knowing if it’s fiction. If I weren’t a vampire, Snow could be in the infirmary right now, being tended to by a licensed professional rather than a seventeen year old boy. “</span>
  <b>Needle in a haystack</b>
  <span>, </span>
  <b>thread it through</b>
  <span>.” I cast, free hand palm up. The items appear in my open hand and I take a deep breath. My fangs are throbbing with the allure of blood directly in front of me. “</span>
  <b>No pain, no gain</b>
  <span>.” That spell is extremely helpful after football practises, I hope it works just as well here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon is already leaned back against the toilet, he starts breathing heavily when I approach him with the needle. “Shut up, it’ll hardly hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’ say anythin’,” he bites out. My needle pierces his skin. If I didn’t sink my fangs into animals daily and snap their necks, I think I’d be sweating tonnes right now. I stay cool and level-headed and finish sewing his wound. “How d’you know how to do tha’?” Simon asks, teeth clenched.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Television,” I say shortly. I stand to grab another flannel from the cupboard and clean off the blood from around the wound. I point my wand at his hair, “</span>
  <b>Clean as a whistle</b>
  <span>.” He shudders and grimaces. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’ like cleanin’ spells on me.” I raise an eyebrow and decide that that’s a discussion for another time. I </span>
  <b>Get well soon</b>
  <span> his knees and heave him upwards. We stumble to his bed, arms wrapped around each other. (If this is the closest we ever get, I’ll die a happy man.) He crumples onto his bed with a groan. I untie his trainers and place them aside. “Why’re you helpin’ me? We hate each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sigh. “If you had bled out, it wouldn’t have been me who finally killed you.” I won’t kill him in our final battle, he’ll kill me. I’m just playing my role.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cast, </span>
  <b>“Blood is thicker than water,” </b>
  <span>to replenish him, then I’m rummaging through his wardrobe to find pajamas and hear his stomach growl. He didn’t finish dinner, which means he hasn’t eaten in eight hours. He probably went off on an empty stomach, poor sod. My fangs slide back to wherever it is they go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘m hungry,” he states. I ignore him and go to the door. “Where’re you goin’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is he so nosy?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m getting you food from the kitchen.” I’m off before he can respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk through the dark halls of Watford, barely paying attention to my surroundings. I got to touch Simon Snow, I got to see him </span>
  <em>
    <span>shirtless</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m living a charmed life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cupboards are stocked full of snacks, along with the refrigerator, Cook Pritchard is an angel. I grab a few sour cherry scones and butter, (I know they’re his favorite) bunches of grapes, and a container of strawberries. On my way out, I snag more pastries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley, what have I gotten myself into? I’m quite literally caring for Simon Snow, visibly. Where do we go from here? I don’t think I can go back to being enemies after this, I’ve seen him at his most vulnerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I return, Simon perks up. I dump the food on his uninjured side and we make eye contact. His ordinary blue eyes meet mine, we stare at each other for a short while. Simon loves food more than anything (except maybe Bunce, or magic) and he’s famished, why isn’t he eating? Would he rather have a staring contest? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I interrupt the silence, “I brought your favorite.” He does that showy swallow of his, Adam’s apple bobbing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I raise an eyebrow and his furrow. “I’m certain the entirety of the student body knows you love sour cherry scones, possibly even the faculty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon squints. “Oh,” he says simply. I roll my eyes and turn to grab my ‘spinny chair,’ as he would call it. I drag it to his bedside. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My nose crinkles, “Don’t thank me, it’s odd.” It’s his turn to roll his eyes. He crams food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. A permanent look of disdain graces my features. “You’re disgusting,” I mutter. He shrugs, then winces. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he’s eating, I </span>
  <b>Clean as a whistle </b>
  <span>his bloodied shirt and cast </span>
  <b>As you were</b>
  <span> on his trackies to repair them. I pride myself in my spell work and enunciation, my ‘clean as a whistle’ is strong enough to remove the worst of stains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spend time in the en suite, collecting myself. The events of tonight have been… inconceivable. In the bedroom, Simon has drifted off, still upright with the plate on his lap. I smile involuntarily. Curse him. “</span>
  <b>Off you pop</b>
  <span>.” I spell away the plate, I’ve still no idea where those items go. Simon would say it’s a waste of magic, but he isn’t awake, is he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he sleeps the whole night like that, he’ll wake with a knot in his neck. I come to the conclusion that if I wake him, and he stares at me sleepily, I’ll die. I’ll combust right then and there. I just nudge his top half over and he adjusts himself. If he pops his stitches I’ll (carefully and lovingly do them over) drain him dry. Better yet, I cast </span>
  <b>Stay put</b>
  <span> to prevent that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flinches in reaction to my magic but I hear his light snores and I can tell he’s already drooling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I climb into my bed so we’re facing each other. His face is squished against his pillow, his hair is mussed and his lips are parted (mouth breather). It is so incredibly endearing I physically feel my undead heart soften. My brain shuts off and I fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wake with a start and glance at our alarm clock. It’s half four in the bloody morning. Snow is tossing and turning and whimpering in his sleep. He’s having a nightmare, obviously. I usually try to ignore him and go back to sleep, but tonight… it just doesn’t seem right. I remove my duvet and realize it’s fucking freezing. I would go shut the window but Simon’s had a hard enough night as is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand beside him and debate on waking him up. He’s whimpering like an injured puppy and when he cries out, I can’t take it anymore. I place a hand on the patch covering his stitches and the other in his hair. I whisper his name three times before raising my voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simon.” His eyes fly open with a gasp. His hand clenches tight around my wrist. If I weren’t a vampire, my bones would creak, that’s how tight his grip is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baz,” he breathes, voice strained and still full of fear. I feel my facial features soften. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Simon, it’s me. You’re fine. You’re at Warford, in Mummers House, in your bed,” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why… why does my side hurt?” His grip begins to loosen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came back with a deep cut there, I had to give you stitches. Do keep up, Snow.” He gives a tight grin that’s more of a grimace. “What was it? What happened in your nightmare?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why d’you care?” he asks suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t sleep with you causing such a racket, can I?” My tone of voice isn’t as rude as I intended. Fuck. He’s making me soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I s’pose you can’t…. I was where I was tonight. The Mage,” I scowl, “sent me on a mission to get rid of some of the Humdrum’s dark creatures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I realize my hand is still on his wound, and his short fingers are still curved around my wrist. I don’t want to sever the little contact we have so I sit down, mattress dipping under me. I begin moving my fingers through his hair, starting at a turtle’s pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a group of trolls, about ten or so. They weren’t under a bridge, they were too close to some village,” he explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mage had you fight </span>
  <em>
    <span>ten trolls</span>
  </em>
  <span> by yourself?” I ask, stupidly. He shrugs, wincing again. “Was Bunce with you?” I already know the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, moving my hand along with it. “No, I didn’t want Penny to come, thought it’d be too dangerous--and it was. She already does so much for me, I don’t want her getting hurt while fighting my battles, for my missions.” Stupid, noble bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you think you have to do everything on your own? Isn’t that the whole point of a sidekick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, “Penny is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> my sidekick, if anything I’m more of hers.” I nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you hadn’t gone alone, you wouldn’t be this hurt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he agrees, “but if I hadn’t gone alone, we wouldn’t be here right now.” He grins. “Besides, I like this better than fighting,” he whispers. My heart jolts. “We don’t have to fight all the time, Baz,” he continues gently. “I know we’re on opposite sides of this stupid fucking war….” I concur, it is rather stupid. (Even though I hate the Mage, if the Old Families and him and his men worked together, we could be rid of the Humdrum much sooner. There’s more of two wars, really, the Old Families against the Mage and the World of Mages against the Humdrum. We have a common enemy, if we all worked together, Simon and I wouldn’t have to end in flames. He wouldn’t have to kill me.) “But, we don’t have to kill each other in the final battle. We’re the heirs of both sides, if we were… I dunno, mates, or at least worked together, we could convince them that we don’t have to fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why would you want to do that?” I ask. It feels like my throat is closing in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs my hand that’s splayed across his torso. “Because I like you, Baz. I never wanted to fight, I was just playing my role. I really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> like you.” I search his eyes for any sort of dishonesty but he’s completely sincere. “I- I know it’s weird, we’ve been enemies for so long but there was always that sense of, I dunno- I just know that I like you and if tonight proves anything, it proves that you sort of like me, too. At least, I hope so. I can’t really tell if this is some sort of plot or if you’re just keeping me healthy so that when we fight, and you kill me, it’ll be fair- mph”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cut him off with a kiss. I squeeze his hand in mine, curl my fingers in his hair and surge forward, staying wary of his wound. We stay like that for a moment, my eyes shut tight. This is possibly the most stupid risk I’ve ever taken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His free hand cups my neck gently and I swoon. He tilts his head so our noses are no longer parallel and he deepens the kiss. I’ve died and gone to the afterlife. Simon Snow is kissing me, after saying he </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. I’ll take as much as I can get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m in a rather uncomfortable position, what with leaning over his body without touching him. It doesn’t matter, I’d kiss Snow in any position. He shifts slightly and pulls away with a hiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing, just my side.” He stares at me, studying my face, lingering on my lips and I do the same. I mentally count his freckles; I get to twenty-two before he pats the space beside him. I lay down and he turns to face me, still just staring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” I repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he whispers. “Never in a million years did I believe I’d be kissing my arch-nemesis in my bed.” He cups my face and slots our lips together once more.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i really like how rowell created the lore for the phrases used as spells. As i see it, “needle in a haystack” can go two ways through different enunciation.  one way: you get an actual needle, the second way: if you picture what you're looking for, that’s disguised or hidden, it’ll come to you</p><p>thank you for reading! feel free to leave a kudos and a comment</p></blockquote></div></div>
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